


Counting Down at the Green Light

by solitaryjane



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 00Q Reverse Bang, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Angst, Cyborgs, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-10-15 07:42:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17524640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitaryjane/pseuds/solitaryjane
Summary: They're quite alike in their fates. One a blunt instrument made sharp and indestructible, the other pure intellect kept alive by the same inscrutable technology. Neither one is allowed to quit, although both had contemplated of giving it all up. But they can’t, so they don’t, all for Queen and Country.This is a love story between a man who's not dying, and a man who's not living.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Boffin1710](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boffin1710/gifts).



> Inspired by the beautiful art done by Boffin1710.
> 
> This story takes place in a future city, aptly called New London, where the technology are mostly similar to our own except in the medical front. There are no flying cars, no sentient AI, no phasers or light-sabers or space travel. There is, however, astonishing strides made in replacing damaged organs, skin grafting, functioning prosthetics, and overall extension of life. Currently there is no seamless integration of machine with man - sometimes things work, sometimes they don't. None of the higher-functioning techs are easily accessible to the average citizen.
> 
> MI6 - simply called Six - is a much more sinister organization than in canon. Olivia Mansfield is not dead but retired somewhere in the countryside. Mallory is the current M, and has been for a while since Bond's stint as 007. Boothroyd is the one who's recruited Q, who starts off the story as a mere techie. Silva has never been a part of Six. There are OCs that I didn't mention in tags because they're not that important, but are necessary for the story to function.
> 
> Despite all the heavy angst I actually think this story is very sweet. Or will be, once it gets there. I hope you enjoy the ride.

 

 

 

* * *

**Zero**

* * *

 

Bond knew he was too late before he even reached the door.

He heard the shouts through his earpiece as he ran up the staircase, intermittent and filled with static. The girl was shrieking at the top of her lungs while the boy was breathing harshly, like he was moments from passing out. In between the screaming he also picked up snippets of the kidnappers’ conversation. They were getting more agitated by the minute, and that, Bond knew, was a bad, bad sign.

Somewhere behind him gunfire sounded and Bond jerked to the right, crashing into the wall as a bullet grazed his left arm. He fired back a shot, watched one of his attackers fall backwards onto his compatriots, momentarily slowing the pursuit. It gave him just enough time to turn toward the heavy door, his back exposed, and wrench it open. The hinges swung outward with a rusty clang. Bond fell through, onto the slippery artificial path and the cold, drizzling rain.

The air outside smelled sweet and fresh after days of crawling through refuse. Bond breathed in greedily, the biting chill along with the view of the glowing city skyline rejuvenating his senses. He hadn’t slept in three days, barely even stopped moving, but he was so goddamn _close_. There was a spill of light a few hundred meters away, in the middle of what looked like an abandoned park. Bond could almost make out the shadows of two figures low on the ground, immobilized, and a hulking silhouette of a vehicle a bit further off.

The shouts in his earpiece chose that moment to erupt into chaos. Bond nearly jumped, and was harshly reminded that time was definitely not on his side. He broke into a sprint, oily rain pelting his face as he heard the vehicle roar to life. Shrill sounds of wheels grinding concrete overtook the cacophony in his ear. It was a chrome-plated monstrosity, reminiscent of a fully outfitted military vehicle, and it was barreling straight toward the figures on the ground. No doubt the kidnappers had exhausted their methods on their targets, and so decided to tie up loose ends before attempting to flee.

Laws of physics dictated he wouldn’t get there in time. But he still had to try.

 

He almost made it; close enough to shoot at the armored tires, closer still to the figures currently giving him a splitting headache with sounds of full-on panic, when something went through both of his knees in rapid succession. Bond cried out despite himself as excruciating pain shot up his body. The ground rushed up, slamming into his skull and making stars explode behind his eyelids. Another ear-splitting screech jolted him out of the impending daze. Bond bolted upright, but found that he could not, for the life of him, get to his feet without a wave of unbearable pain dragging him back down.

For the first time in a long time, Bond felt fear. The kind that he had long forgotten lying in the depth of his marrow. Everything slowed around him as he watched, heart sinking. The hulk of the car as it tossed itself forward in its immutable trajectory. The incessant chant of _somebody save us please_ and the hyperventilated breathing that rattled his eardrum. The wet, warm pain as something hit his torso from behind, igniting a flare of newfound ache in his right shoulder. He saw the turn of the tires peeking through its protective guards, slow like molasses, and blinked.

His hand was steady as he raised the gun and aimed the last of his bullets at the exposed rubber. He did not hear the bang, nor feel his fingers pull the trigger, but the car suddenly tilted on its axis as one of its front wheels deflated, chassis scraping along the asphalt in a shower of wet sparks. It lurched to the side, and there was a single moment when Bond thought it was enough, that the momentum was sufficient to turn the body, off its original path and away from –

It wasn’t.

Bond watched it plow through the Q-branch abductees like they were nothing but a bump on the road, the crunch of metal on flesh a sick, dense sound mingling with the sharp tang of blood and viscera. The car flipped over, caught on a dip in the slope, and skidded into an electric post a few meters away. Smoke swirled out under its hood, crackling and popping until suddenly bursting into a bright, blue flame. Bond felt a surge of heat hit his face as the explosion lit up the night, charring its occupants, destroying the machine, neatly wrapping up his mission like the end of a hackneyed fairytale.

Only five seconds too late.

 

The silence in his ear was deafening.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> __  
>  [ (Cue intro music) ](https://youtu.be/I134VaHGnDs?t=13)   
> 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

  **One**

* * *

 

Waking up in Medical was a bitch. Always had been, even for someone who had gone through it as many times as he did. James had never been a good patient and the doctors all knew that. Expected it, just like he had expected to roll out of bed after all the painkillers subsided post-surgery, perhaps a little bit worse for wear, and jump straight into the next international crisis with nothing more than a perfunctory dusting of his suit jacket.

The utter wreck that was left of both his knees, however, had other plans.

It started before he was even wheeled into the operating room. The bullets had deposited a coating that reacted with anesthesia as they passed through him, and James found himself resolutely conscious after the nurses administered the usual dose. Then a bit more. Then more and more until it was borderline of putting him into a coma but his knees still hurt like all hells, bloody and in pieces like unsalvageable scraps atop the pristine white sheets.

In the end they gave him a bit to bite down on as they dug fragments of bone from his mangled flesh while remaining wide awake. He was strapped down on a bed reinforced with titanium and flanked by two guards armed with tasers. It did not prevent him from almost dislocating both of his shoulders as he writhed and screamed in agony. James was honestly surprised that he did not swallow the bit and choke to death (which actually would be infinitely preferable, being dead, that was). They were instructed to shock him if needed, even if it risked cardiac arrest, because the point of the whole thing was to get him unconscious. You know, like how major surgeries were supposed to go.

There was apparently a marked difference in pain between frenzied tortures in the hands of an enemy and clinical removal of pieces of cartilage done by a doctor. It was another thing that James had never intended to learn, but now knew about anyway.

At last, he mercifully passed out halfway through the procedure, before they started sawing off the ends of his femurs. The next time he opened his eyes was two days after, his whole body numb from the insane amount of morphine except for a few warm spots – around both of his knees (but not the knees themselves), his right chest cavity, the hinge of his lower left jaw. It was a somewhat familiar sensation, indicating the parts that needed the most healing, and James found himself relaxing into it. He knew how the rest of this would go, after all. At most he’d be confined for a few more days, before the harder part of getting muscle back via intense physical therapy would begin.

A week later his left knee began to swell and pus. Two angry red lines appeared around the joint, encircling the leg and extending into the veins. He was running a 40˚C fever and slipping in and out of consciousness. The doctors pumped him with antibiotics and anticonvulsants and argued over what to do next – his body was violently rejecting the unit and they needed to act quickly before sepsis set in. There were a few options: try at drug combinations until his body hopefully adapts; take out and replace the unit with another, marginally less reactive one; or cut off the limb at its root and replace the whole thing. It was clinically proven that something entirely robotic tend to fare better than metal and flesh melded together, especially in complicated areas such as the knee.

Each option had its risks and drawbacks and warranted endless, heated debate. James was oblivious to it all in his fit. It wouldn’t matter even if he were awake, really; his body technically belonged to Six – had been clearly delineated on his contract when James signed it a decade ago – so whatever they wanted to do was their sole prerogative. It had been a miracle that they hadn’t installed something sooner, considering the amount of damage 007 invoked on his persons on a regular basis. The only hard line they couldn’t legally cross was experimenting on him while he was alive – ethics had always been a grey area when governmental agencies were involved, but thankfully there was an absolute to fall back against. Anything up to that, however, was lawfully out of his hands.

Fortunately, this time the higher-ups didn’t feel like playing dice nor God, and opted for the middle-of-the-road unit replacement route. When James woke again it was five days after his second surgery, and the bandages around his left knee had more than doubled while his entire left leg felt like it had gone through a meat grinder. They gave him minimal painkillers for fear of further complications, but it was nothing compared to what he’d gone through the first time around, so James didn’t complain, only utilized all of his breathing and mediation techniques when he needed rest.

He watched the swelling slowly diminish and the ruined flesh scar over. There was still the hum of a low-grade fever, kept at bay by the ubiquitous IV drip, but he was completely lucid for the first time in close to a month. There were things lingering in the back of his mind – the state of the mission, the status of his agenthood, and other, much less pleasant thoughts. But at the moment there was a calmness in the steady drone of the machines. He was alive, in one functional piece, and the pain that was a constant in his life had finally begun to ebb.

 

It took another two weeks for everything to fall to normal parameters and an additional one to resettle him into a basic floor unit. The nurses now only checked on him a few times a day, and the first morning he woke up and made his own way to the bath felt like a triumph well deserved. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, a haggard old man stitched together with gauze and medical tape, and felt a sneaking doubt worm its way into his heart. By all means he should’ve been put out to pasture; no double-oh agent had ever kept their post after a duration this long in Medical. Hell, he should’ve been paralyzed for life after all those complications. And yet here he stood, as stubborn as a bloodstain on the wall that refused to be washed away.

His knees didn’t hurt. In fact, they felt perfectly undamaged as if he had never been shot. Elsewhere on his body screamed the ache of every laceration, broken bone, torn ligament, but his knees were floating isles of nothingness, only grounded by an occasional pulse of discomfort where the metal units touched flesh. It was like a piece of himself had permanently vanished and was replaced by mere puffs of air. He didn’t know what to make of that, so he dealt with it the way he always had and ignored it, pushing the sinking feel down to the tiling against his cold, bare feet.

He was to start physical therapy in a few days. Finally, although the fact also made him slightly nervous. If the mere act of standing was putting him out of sorts then it didn’t bode well for the rest of the sessions, not to mention his future re-evals. Those tests were as much mental as physical after all. Hastily he switched gears, wondering what had been happening at Six while he was out. Part of him – his egotistical side –  wanted it to be in chaos (and it probably was, considering the mess the attack had left of Q-branch). Part of him wanted it to carry on like nothing had happened. He was meant to be a disposable cog and should function as so. It was a warped sense of comfort, but one that Queen and Country depended upon. In any case, someone would let him know soon enough.

 

The news came in the form of Bill Tanner, striding through the white hospital doors on a quiet Tuesday morning. It was just past eight, after a horrendously bland breakfast, and James was only too happy to finally see someone not in scrubs or a lab coat. The Chief of Staff looked the same as he always did, pressed suit and tie in a muted, tasteful grey. He was holding a standard-sized tablet, his thin-lipped expression was the one reserved for post-disaster clean-ups, calm and professional and utterly blank.

“Hello Bond,” Tanner greeted. “How have you been?”

“Splendid,” James replied, a wry smile forming on his lips. “You?”

Tanner was too used to his antics to dignify James with an answer. Instead he sat down on a nearby chair, booting up the tablet with a swipe of his fingers. To business, then, James thought. It wouldn’t stave off the inevitable, so he might as well take the reins.

“Have I been sacked?” he asked, voice carefully neutral. Tanner paused in his one-hand typing and raised his eyebrows. James could almost hear the indignant reproach from where he lay.

“Not at all,” Tanner said. “Your number was never pulled from the roster – M’s direct orders. I’m here to talk about your last mission, nothing more.”

“Ah,” It was expected; why would they bother fixing him at all otherwise? Although why he was doing a debrief with Tanner here in Medical rather than with M in the stuffy office on the top floor, James couldn’t say.

“There had been some major restructuring and staff changes lately,” Tanner continued as if reading his mind. “M will be indisposed for quite some time. This is just a preliminary debrief; you’ll still need to file a formal report and meet with him at a later date, but that,” he gestured toward the bed, “can wait until after you’re through with your rehabilitation.”

James nodded. He could well guess what was happening. The entire Six was probably in shambles, shaken to its core by the extent of the attack, and Mallory was no doubt tied up in bureaucratic red tape while trying to mitigate the damage. It just happened that James was fighting against his own body during the fallout, and subsequently missed most of it.

 _Well aren’t you a lucky bastard_ , he scoffed at himself, before refocusing on the man in front of him, digital pen poised and ready. James coughed, throat suddenly dry.

“You can start anywhere you like,” the Chief of Staff prodded. “And talk as much as you want. Or don’t want. But enough so I could at least make it look I tried.”

Tanner let out a small smile. James could see the shadow of his colleague from the times they had hung out at bars and less formal settings, trying to put him at ease. He appreciate the effort and took in a breath. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t spent his ample time in bed thinking about this exact moment. Even if James Bond was not ready, 007 certainly was.

 

He began the recount almost on autopilot, starting with what he remembered of the explosion that tore right through the walls of Q-branch. The shrill sound of the alarm ripped through the halls, reached where James was testing a prototype machine gun, and all the doors began to slam shut on cue. (It was a part of the emergency security protocol that James had always thought to be more hindrance than help, but he really wasn’t keen on being proven right.) He described the dozens of bodies that littered across the floor of Q-branch proper once he made it through, with Major Boothroyd amidst the debris, trapped and unconscious. There was a trail of blood leading to the lift that connected to the underground garage. The assailants had taken two employees hostage – R, Boothroyd’s second-in-command, and a new hire who had shot up the ranks so quickly that _he_ was rumored to be the one to take over the post of Quartermaster, once Boothroyd decided to retire.

M had sent Bond and 003 out immediately after. But without any useful info and a barely functioning Q-branch, it soon became one of the most grueling missions James had ever gone on. It was sheer luck that they managed to find the attackers’ first location, a dilapidated warehouse on the sketchy side of midtown. But they arrived a few hours too late, and all that was left was a video footage of someone offscreen screaming commands while the abductees were being tortured, projected in a loop on the blood-splattered walls.

It became a sort of macabre game of cat-and-mouse after that. He and 003 always missed their targets by an infuriatingly small window, sometimes under an hour, as they chased across the expanse of greater New London. They still had no idea what the attackers wanted aside from breaching into R&D. James suspected the original kidnapping was supposed to be Boothroyd, but had to be adjusted mid-heist. That did not bode well for the survival chance of the two techs. Should it be the case where neither one had high enough clearance nor the skill to access what the attackers wanted, then they were good as dead.

 _And they were_ , James thought bitterly, as he went on to describe his mad dash on that accursed stretch of road. He stuck to the facts: the exhaustion after not sleeping for nearly 72 hours straight; the pure, numerical distance between him, the targets, and the car; the utter lack of preparation all throughout. These were not meant to be excuses and did not absolve him of any responsibility, but they kept his voice steady as he talked. Tanner had only interrupted once, asking where he had gotten the audio signal in his earpiece since he had been cut off from Six after his descent down to the sewers. James didn’t know – it just switched on when he got close to the building. Someone had obviously done something, but only the dead could speak of the details now.

(He did not talk about how clearly he had seen the beaten face of the girl on the projected video, her once bright blue eyes now filled with blood and fear. Her screams and sobs had haunted his dreams since they took him off the painkillers, so much he could no longer reconcile her weeping from the warm, friendly banter they had shared before in Q-branch. Likewise, he did not speak of the sound of air being choked out of the boy as he thrashed, refusing to lift his thin, delicate fingers onto the assailants’ laptop despite the barrel of the gun pushed against his temple. He remembered the smear of blood running down the boy’s nostrils, pooling into the crack of his lips and the gaps of missing teeth. His irises were a striking shade of green below a matted dark fringe as he stared into the camera, eyes still filled with something akin to hope.)

When he finished Tanner said nothing, not even betraying a flicker of emotion. He swiped the tablet closed and stored the pen away, then said:

“Do you have any questions for me, agent?”

James thought for a moment. “What happened to 003?” They’d gotten separated midway through the sewers. He hadn’t heard anything of the man since.

“Deceased,” Tanner grimaced. “Shot through the heart. It was quick.”

“The Major?”

“Also deceased. Blunt force trauma and bleeding of the brain; took a few days. I wish it was as quick.” Tanner looked away for a brief second. “Once again, Bond, you are the only one who somehow got away from the whole ordeal in one piece.”

“Mostly,” James retorted, thinking of his not-quite-existent knees. Tanner cleared his throat and stood up. He reiterated the need for a formal write-up before leaving. James watched his retreating back, suddenly feeling exhausted. He sank back on his pillow, pulled up the cover, and closed his eyes.

It would pass, he knew, this unbearable weight. After he recounted it the necessarily number of times it would fade, and then they would stop speaking of it altogether. It was only because this was the first time he had to relive the memory that it was so heavy. James knew how to compartmentalize, knew how to deal with guilt and grief. It was why Psych had passed him every time and why he retained his number. He knew he would come back, somewhat whole, and be fine.

Just, perhaps, not yet.

 

***

 

The rehabilitation was slow-going but steady, very similar to the previous times with some minor adjustments for his new hardware. The knees were mending beautifully despite their initial misgivings. He could manage a brisk walk on the indoor track a few weeks into therapy, and three more sessions brought his pace back up to a light jog. Phenomenal for an injury that would’ve otherwise left him crippled for life.

Moneypenny came to visit near the tail end, dressed to the nines and wearing a sympathetic smile. James was doing pull-ups on a mounted bar at the time, clad in only pair of track shorts. She whistled at his sweaty torso, only half mocking. James felt the corner of his mouth lift as he disengaged.

“Truly the miracle of modern science,” she cheerfully stated before shoving a stack of papers under his nose. Her warm brown eyes twinkled at his annoyed expression. “These are not permitted for digitization. I can’t do much about orders from up high.”

“How high?” he asked.

“Way, way high,” she handed him an ink pen. “Come on, chop chop. You have a meeting with M in an hour.”

“Finally decided I’m still worth a look?”

“Oh believe me, you’re still worth many looks. But I don’t think M quite appreciate a physique like yours, though. A bit too tough to chew on.”

“Does M know you like to equate him with a mean old dog?”

“I didn’t use any of those words, and of course not. He only knows I equate you with one.”

With that she spun on her sharp heels, the golden dress hugged her body like a second skin. “Bring the paperwork when you’re going to the meeting. I’ll be at my desk.”

James felt himself smile. It was nice to see that some things had not changed. He shook his head, wiped himself down with a towel, and settled on the floor mat to thumb through the stack.

 

There were a few things James expected to happen in the limbo between reinstatement and not. He expected to have certain privileges revoked, par for the course when sensitive information was involved. (Who could reliably predict if a recovering agent would go rogue or perish in the ever-changing in-between? Better if Six automatically lowered their levels as a preemptive move.) He expected to lose access to certain floors – R&D, Q-branch, the double-ohs’ private lounge, although anywhere required for eval was accessible. He expected several rounds of debriefs, especially if the mission ended in catastrophic failure, and the possibility of preliminary evals from Phys and Psych, depending on how badly he had wrecked himself the last time.

He did not expect for everything to come out at once in the confines of M’s stuffy office. They hadn’t even started talking aside from perfunctory greetings before M pushed a thin tablet toward him. It opened to the results of his month-long physical therapy and the one session he had with Psych, an informal chat that he had thought was just to establish a baseline and not anything remotely official. He had recovered commendably on the physical front: strength and endurance just on the verge of passing, marksmanship a bit shaky but nothing a few dozen rounds at the firing range wouldn’t solve, and speed and reflex already at par. No, those were no problems at all.

The psych eval, however, was an abysmal mess. James stared at what was probably the lowest score he’d seen in the entirety of his career. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if it was the lowest the entire double-oh division ever gotten. It was a miracle that he wasn’t immediately committed to a ward upon release from ICU. M’s steady gaze on his face only confirmed the suspicion.

“Now, Bond,” M said evenly as James handed back the tablet as if it burnt him. “I sincerely hope you have a bit more to say in this debrief than what you had previously told Tanner.”

It was meant to catch him off guard, James realized, and it bloody hell worked. It made him question his own state of mind. He had watched countless people get killed in front of him, some caused by his own actions, others pure collateral damage. A significant portion were innocent bystanders, smaller percentage were people he was supposed to rescue, few and far in between. Never had the heaviness lingered after a few weeks. He’d agreed to the psych chat at all because he had long since stopped feeling out of sorts. Or so he had thought.

Perhaps he really was getting old. Old and sentimental. James scoffed, a bitter taste rising in the back of his throat. He had forgotten how much M could be a manipulative bastard, and that fact alone meant he would absolutely not do what his superior had suggested. One did not bait James Bond into reacting without getting a profound lash back. M should’ve known this already.

So he repeated exactly what he had told Tanner almost verbatim, and would’ve gone on had M not had enough of his bullshit and stopped him mid-recount with a raised hand. James bristled, itching to storm out the door, but was stopped by the glare that M gave him as he started to stand. They stared at each other, he with a clenched jaw and M with obvious irritation leaking from his tired, yet still astute, gaze. The tension was almost palpable enough to ignite.

M looked away first. He let out a sigh, shifting his attention to the mess of papers spread on his desk. James didn’t move. He didn’t trust himself not to break the chair if he did, or throw something from M’s desk across the room.

“We’re done here,” M said, standing up. “You’re to have your mandatory evals in two weeks. Get yourself together, Bond. I didn’t hold your number all this time just to see you trash it underfoot. I’m expecting your full, _written_ debrief on my desk before the day’s over.”

“Sir,” James inclined his head customarily at the dismissal. He had finished his report days ago, only didn’t turn it in out of habit – another one of those things he liked to pretend he was callous about. Albeit its content was almost identical to what he had recounted.

He was opening the door before M’s voice stopped him again. “Oh, before I forget, I suggest you drop by Q-branch when you have the chance.”

James frowned. The request was odd, especially since he didn’t currently have the authorization. M noticed his hesitation. He waved his hand almost dismissively before adding:

“I’ll let them issue you a temporary card. Your level would remain the same for the other restrictions.”

“Is there something particular I should be aware of?” James asked.

M didn’t answer and James soon realized he wasn’t going to. He imagined whatever that was left of the department would be in quite a turmoil, what with their head and both potential replacements gone overnight. Perhaps there were certain things Boothroyd had leftover to clean up, but what that had to do with him, James couldn’t fathom. Sure, the old man had a particular fondness for 007, but it was nothing beyond the usual camaraderie between a handler and an agent.

Well, there was no need to guess wildly when he could simply go there in person. It wasn’t like his schedule was packed in the wake of that absolute shit of a debrief. So he sauntered out the office, bidding a good day to Miss Moneypenny, and headed toward the lift at the end of the hall.

 

When he stepped out onto the basement level he was at first surprised by the apparent lack of change. There was absolutely zero indication of the blast that had torn open most of the hallway and the adjoining wall. Even the new paint matched the yellowing tone that surrounded it, along with the random divots that James knew were disguised cameras and other sources of security. The bulletproof glass panels were whole and unblemished, giving a clear view into the large room segmented by numerous cubicles, metal tables piled high with half-finished gadgets, and the giant screens that took up the back wall. A man stood in the center console, facing away from the entrance, headphone plugged in and dictating to another staff member. James assumed that was the new whatever letter they were up taking charge. S? T? Or was it still Q for formalities’ sake?

Either way, Q-branch looked just as functioning as it always had. Perhaps even more so, judging by the increase in streamlined interfaces. James went and swiped his temporary access card against the security reader, listening to the familiar ping. He still didn’t know what purpose could it possibly serve to send him down here. Wouldn’t it make more sense to wait for when he actually acquired a mission and needed to be outfitted?

Then the man at the center turned, and James felt as if the floor had been pulled roughly from under his feet. He stood just past the threshold, the glass doors sealing behind him with a decisive hiss. The psych eval was accurate; he was losing his mind, hallucinating in the middle of the afternoon at work. Or he was actually dying and everything up to this point had just been the last throes of a fever dream.

Because the dead was looking straight at him in the form of green eyes and shorn hair and red, pursed lips, conspicuously devoid of blood and bruises, and leaving James felt as if _he_ were the one who had been pounded into dirt, bones ground to ashes, and scattered by the wayward wind.

 


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

  **Two**

* * *

 

An average person, when confronted with something completely outlandish and nonsensical, would most likely react by approaching with caution. There might be an overwhelming urge to distrust one’s own eyes, or an instinctual attempt to shake off the feel of trepidation. An average person might start to incoherently stammer or be shocked into silence. They might also, quite prudently, run the fuck away.

James Bond was not an average person. In fact, James Bond might be the antithesis of what was considered average, and so in the grand scheme of things he would often opt for the exact opposite of what was, frankly, smart. But it was this selfsame tenacity that kept 007 alive all these years, and Bond was not one to question methods that worked, especially when it came to his own _modus operandi_.

So instead of continuing the impotent staredown with what was either a reanimated corpse or an apparition, Bond acted. He quickly crossed the room, dimly aware of the ensuing silence that enveloped it. The young man (not a boy, no) held his ground. Green eyes bore into him, unflinching as Bond got right up to his station, and leaned so close that he could feel warm breaths blowing on his face.

A beat passed in silence. Then two, and Bond was suddenly aware of the cracks in his hypotheses – the man was _breathing_ , for one; the whites of his eyes were watery and alert behind wire-framed glasses, and there was a faint but definite flush gracing his cheeks. The boy, young man, whatever, if not actually alive, was at least doing an impressive proximation.

It was the other who spoke first, a clipped sort of tenor that rattled and set within bone and sinew. “Can I help you, Mr. Bond?” he said, raised eyebrows prominent in the absence of the thick, dark fringe. An image of that same face flashed in front of his eyes: blood-matted hair, broken nose, half-swollen-shut eyes still managing a defiant stare at the camera before it cut to black. Bond bristled, suddenly furious.

“You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Ah, is that all?”

“Now you listen here –” The flippant tone grated him more than the words did. “I was _there_. I _saw_ you. You’re supposed to be _dead_.”

He didn’t know what prompted him to reach out. Perhaps it was the haughty eyeroll that immediately followed his words. Or that the conversation was going nowhere fast. Later he might’ve blamed this on one too many surprises in succession, but now he only felt blind anger as he raised his right hand, sure and quick, and made a grab for the young man’s sharp jawline.

His hand had hardly grazed the translucent skin before skinny fingers clamped around his wrist and pried it away with inhuman strength. The sharp flare of pain gave him pause. He wrestled the hold, frowning when he discovered he couldn’t shake loose. A few more futile attempts and the utter absurdity of a Q-branch nerd keeping a fucking double-oh at bay finally sank in. Bond turned, gaze falling away from that impassive face to focus on the fragile-looking hand, the grip so tight it was leaving visibly blooming bruises on his right wrist.

Once he saw it, however, he couldn’t believe he’d missed it in the first place. The skin color was all kinds of wrong, too shiny and perfect with too few cracks in the dry air of the room. The fingertips lacked any and all calluses, especially for someone whose living depended on typing on hard, metallic surfaces. The nails were entirely too symmetrical, the knuckle joints disturbingly round, and instead of veins there were faint lines of electric glow thrumming up the arm. Bond followed it, traced into the sleeves of the pressed white shirt and coming out at the collar. It melded into a thin white line just below the jaw, and he recognized it as the skingraft used in prosthetics, the kind appropriated for missing appendages. He leaned over, ignoring the protest from his awkwardly held arm, and saw the line encircle the entirety of the elegant neck.

It wasn’t a matter of a single missing limb; it was his entire body that was missing.

“Satisfied?” the voice said coolly. A conspicuously loud throat-clearing sounded behind them, cutting off Bond’s retort.

“Bond, please unhand and step away from the Quartermaster. _Now_.”

It took some serious effort not to comment that it was the Quartermaster who had his hand on _him_ and not the other way around. But there was no heat behind M’s words, only a dogged tiredness. Bond stepped back as the other finally let go of his wrist. He turned to see not only M standing by the door, but also Tanner, Moneypenny, and 002, armed with her signature Beretta M2275, safety off and pointed not-so-subtly at his chest.

 _The whole cavalry, huh?_ he thought wryly. 002 tensed up visibly as he walked over, although her trigger finger remained loose and still _._

“May I have word, sir,” Bond said, stopping a mere half-meter away from M’s face. “ _Please_.”

 

They retreated to an empty conference room across the hall. Tanner pulled down the privacy shades while Bond glared at 002 and her gun until M dismissed her. “Don’t get any ideas, James,” she told him before leaving. “I’m right outside.”

What did she think he was going to do, attack his own superiors? He started to laugh at the thought, but upon further introspection found that she was not too off the mark. The anger had simmered to a persistent hum, licking at his nerve’s frayed edge. These were people he trusted, people he could almost call friends. He had thought they trusted him just as much. Until now.  

They all looked like they were waiting for him to start, so Bond did, and was only surprised by the quiet timbre of his voice. He thought he’d be shouting.

“It’s been four bloody months and none of you thought it fit to tell me that someone I watched die right in front of me is very much _alive_?”

Tanner’s refute of “you didn’t have the clearance” came the same time as Moneypenny’s “our hands were tied.” M said nothing, only squeezed the bridge of his nose as if with a migraine. Really, it all sounded like bureaucratic bullshit. Queen and Country might’ve kept Bond from questioning when parts of his body were discarded and replaced without his input, but when everyone decided to keep him in the dark due to ‘protocol’ while pretending nothing was amiss, well, it was more than he could swallow at this particular moment.

“He wasn’t dead, technically,” said Tanner. “Came perilous close to, but, he was deemed a medical success. Just like with you.”

“Right,” Bond scoffed, the reference to his own ordeal pricking at his insides. “What about R then? Is she floating around somewhere too?”

“No,” M cut in. “She was beyond saving, in any form. Mr. Tanner did not lie to you, Bond. None of us had.”

“Just conveniently left out some irrelevant parts, I see.”

“They’re classified information and should I remind you, Bond, that you are currently not even an agent.” M’s tone became harsh. “I could have you removed from the premises on the account of trespassing. Don’t push your luck.”

“We wanted to tell you, James, we really did. We had no choice.” Moneypenny’s voice was soft and placating. She exchanged a nervous glance with Tanner, and Bond suddenly recalled her words to him earlier that day. _Way high_ , she had said. Perhaps that was not meant to be idle banter, but a fair warning.

“We were going to anyway,” Tanner added. “That is, until your prelim results came in…”

Bond swore. The psych evals. Of course it was the psych evals. Always came back to the bloody thing ever since his very first mission. He saw Moneypenny open her mouth, but a raised hand from Mallory stopped whatever she was going to say.

“There are things at work beyond what any one of us could influence,” M stated. “I was given a choice and I made the decision based on the variables present. Surely you’re familiar with such concept.”

“And this –” Bond gestured to himself, then toward the direction of Q-branch, currently blocked out by the blackout curtains. “ _this_ – is what you’ve decided as the best course?”

“Not at all. I recommended retirement. Or in the Quartermaster’s case, a humane and definitive end. But like I stated, there were variables. Some became more considerable than others later on.”

Bond suddenly felt tired. Fatigue hit him full force, the shock and guilt and relief and everything he had been resolutely pushing away neatly compounded into a single blow. The Mistress they all served had never cared about any of them. Bond knew that, had never taken it personally, but now all he could think of was the political game that M had just inadvertently revealed. No one had any control over, well, anything, and Mallory might’ve actually done him a favor, letting him in on the incessant maneuvering that had always been rolling under the surface, even though Bond felt it was too little, too late.

He turned his head toward Q-branch, remembering the cool green eyes and its masked indifference. What’s it like, he wondered, coming back from the dead with one’s whole body missing? Did it really count as coming back at all?

“What exactly is he?” he finally said, to no one in particular.

“A very delicate and expensive equipment,” M replied. “One that would garner international attention should words spread. Naturally, I expect you to be discreet, even within Six. You don’t have the clearance as is.”

“Why send me down here at all then?”

“You’re going to have to work with him sooner or later. It’s better if you know now before your re-qualification rounds. Speaking of which,” M straightened, and Bond knew this meeting had come to a close. “Go home, Bond. Until it’s time for your evals, you’re banned from all non-related areas on the premise, effective immediately. And if I catch you going anywhere near Q-branch or the armory on your way out, I’ll have you detained for the foreseeable future.”

“Yes, sir,” Bond gave a cursory nod. He turned on his heels, not sparing a backward glance as he left the room. 002 gave him a menacing look as he passed her, and there were now additional security details all along the hallway to the lift. Bond scoffed, nonplussed. He had no idea where he was headed, but the further he could get from the shadows of Six and everything it entailed, the better.

 

***

 

Bond did not go home, even though he hadn’t seen the inside of his flat for the better part of a half year. Instead he roamed aimlessly on the city streets. M wasn’t messing around when he issued the ban – all of his electronic devices were locked down the minute he set foot outside the chrome-clad doors, save for a single access card granting him entry to certain areas with limited hours. He was in the motion of chucking it into the river before his self-preserving practicality kicked in, and guided his hand holding the insulting plastic not toward the rapid waters but into an inner pocket, secure and safe, before he hailed a taxicab downtown.

He had expected Six to stick a tail on him. There was still a smattering of weapons well hidden in his flat, a palm-print-activated Walther included. If he were in Mallory’s position he wouldn’t have trusted himself one iota, either. But as he directed the cabbie in and out of traffic, the setting sun a wash of pink in the rear window, there eventually came the realization that no one was following. Nor were there any signs of electronic monitoring, judging by the positions of the cameras mounted above the streets.

 _Pity_ , Bond thought, disgruntled. He would’ve bedded the unfortunate fucker, whoever it might’ve been. It would be like sticking up the proverbial middle finger and Bond was feeling more than a little petty at the moment. But alas, now he had to resort to the less desirable option – the self-destructive, quite alcoholic kind.

He got out during a red light and threw some bills onto the cab seat. A drizzle had started, signaling an oncoming downpour. Bond ignored the cabbie’s shouts (some irrelevant thing about procedure; he gave more than enough for the fare) and ran off the road, taking shelter under the awning of a shop nearby. There was an alley branching off to the right, relatively well lit, with the swaying sign of a pub a little ways in. Bond paused. His stomach was starting to grumble while the rain was swiftly picking up speed. It’d have to do.

The joint was predictably shoddy, with a front door falling off its hinges and the main room bathed in greasy yellow light. Th air smelled like burnt meat and stale tobacco, but the neon-saturated bar looked well stocked, and the bartender was just on the cold side of friendly. Bond took a seat at the barstool furthest from the door. Not the most defensive of positions, but there was an itch surging in his blood. If his open back looked like vulnerable bait, so be it.

He ordered fish-and-chips and a pint of stout. Then quickly another, once he discovered that the alcohol, albeit a smidge off, didn’t taste half bad. His tolerance had tanked after being dry for so long, however, and a pleasant buzz began to sink in after the third fill. _This was fine_ , he thought as his mind relax by minute increments. The alcohol was warming up his body, quieting down the buzz inside his head and the urge to get into a physical altercation. Maybe he’d simply get wasted and then pass out somewhere. If the way the room had already begun to tilt was any indication, he might even achieve that before the clock struck ten.

Really, he should’ve known his own shit luck. No sooner had he taken a sip from his fourth pint did someone slide in the stool next to him, reeking of body odor and the stink of car exhaust. The man pushed against the counter, all elbows and wild gestures and nearly knocked Bond’s beer off the narrow strip. Bond didn’t react, only moved his drink and turned his body away from the intruder.

“Oi,” the man jostled sideways, beady brown eyes giving Bond a hazy onceover. “Don’t I know ya?”

“I doubt that,” Bond said gruffly.

The man, unfortunately, was quite persistent. “No. No - I never f’get a face. I know ya. Yer that, ya were on 13th, by the fabric plant, a while ago. Saw ya and that other bloke running. I ’member because it was howling blazes and ya ran right by me corner.”

Bond stilled. Dimly he realized where he was: he had gotten out at midtown, barely over the line between the gentrified shops and the warehouse district, where the kidnapper’s first hideout was located. The man was right; he (and 003) very well could have run past him without noticing. At the time they were both preoccupied with much more pressing things than some sod begging on the street.

Bond abruptly stood up, signaling the bartender for the tab while throwing some money onto the countertop. The appearance of this heckler was just too well timed, and Bond had never been a man who believed in coincidences. He flipped up the hood of his jacket, for once glad he was still wearing the nondescript tracksuit from Medical, and made a beeline for the exit on the other side of the room.

A bony hand reached out, latching tightly onto his arm. Bond had to restrain himself from reflexively throwing a punch. “Fuck off,” he spat, then jerked out of the heckler’s grasp. The man began to curse up a storm as the other patrons watched silently, like observing a blood sport. Several of them, however, were too similarly dressed and paying just a bit too much attention. _Get out_ , his paranoid mind screamed, and Bond instinctively picked up the pace.

There was a cracking sound, followed by a sharp whistle, and suddenly everything seemed to collapse upon him at once. The heckler practically launched at his back, dirty fingers aiming straight for the eyes. Bond grunted, grabbed at the clawing hands and easily broke the frail digits in the process. The man shrieked just as he was thrown into one of his cohorts, and the full brawl unfolded from there. Soon Bond’s knuckles were raw and split. A bottle caught him on the side of the head, drawing blood, but the sting was a familiar and delicious burn in his adrenaline-addled brain. He could hear the frantic thumping of his heart and the even, deadly rhythm of his breathing. All of the pent-up frustrations seemed to spontaneously combust, and Bond felt his old self emerging for the first time in months.

As the fight went on it quickly became apparent that these men were not organized, like he had first thought. None had any training, for one, and their coordinated attacks were sloppy at best, counterproductive at worst. It calmed his mind, knowing this probably wasn’t a hit specifically on _him_ but more of an opportunistic mugging. They were known obstacles that could be methodically disposed of. It was grounding and cathartic, and Bond reveled in it as he let go.

Until one threw a right hook and caught him square in the jaw.

There was no burst of pain. In fact, it almost felt like he wasn’t hit at all, and the sound of cracking bone that followed was from the attacker, who let out a howl as he clutched his own hand, now broken, and fell backwards into the fray. Bond stilled. A slew of unpleasant memories assaulted his senses, and Bond felt all of the manic energy drain out of him in a single blow.

He had all but forgotten the metal piece that replaced the entire left side of his mandible. The mess of his knees had dwarfed every other injury, so much he had consequently dismissed all the rest of the alterations done to his body. His left jaw, his right collarbone, and a significant part of his lungs were now either entirely artificial or held together with pins and wire meshes. None of the injures ached or healed like a normal wound should. His punctured lungs should’ve left him beyond winded after this exertion, but currently, he wasn’t even out of breath.

“What the fuck are you made of?” the man nursing his hand yelled. “You’re a fucking freak - a _monster_!”

Bond had been called many, many things in his life. He’d never paid them any attention, yet these words wormed under his skin, digging into the softest parts. His thoughts abruptly returned to the man in Q-branch, the one that should’ve perished but didn’t, and instead got a body enshrouded in metal and scars cut deep in the muted green eyes. He thought of his own fate, orchestrated by shadowy figures, ruthlessly untouchable. An old man with one foot and various parts already in the grave, waiting for the inevitable with baited breath.

Monsters, they were. Freaks made not at all of their own choosing, with the banner of Queen and Country staked through their fragile, perilous hearts.

The sudden turn of his stomach had nothing to do with the excess adrenaline and alcohol. Bond made a hasty retreat, barging past the remaining attackers and crashing through the rickety door. Outside it was pouring buckets. Thunder rumbled in the distance, accentuated by flash of lightning and a biting wind. The oily water washed off the blood on his cheek and dampened the roiling chaos threating to erupt from his throat. Not too far away came the sound of police sirens; no doubt someone had called the authorities over the brawl. Bond ignored all of the noise. He walked on autopilot, thoughts still lingered on the emptiness of his knees and the jaw that couldn’t be broken by a human fist. The pull of New London at night quickly swallowed him up into its throng.

When he finally emerged Bond found himself standing by the river, looking across the waters at the spires of Six, all lit up with sepia-toned halogen in its austere glory. He had somehow doubled back without making a conscious decision. The Queen’s flag floated defiantly at its crest, unfazed by the rain and the surrounding mist. Bond stared at it doggedly, at the proud symbol that had dominated his turbulent life, and for the first time felt the sense of impending dread.

He heaved over the side of the bridge, gaze transfixed on the rapids below, and threw up.


End file.
